


Beneath a Moonlit Sky

by Jane (Trekkie1999)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Caring, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, So much angst, really fucking slow burn i plan on making you all suffer, slowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 13:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19401382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trekkie1999/pseuds/Jane
Summary: Crowley had been planning the night he would tell Aziraphale about his feelings for 6,000 years, but a horrible surprise stops him from fulfilling his plans. {Incomplete}





	1. Surprise!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi i haven't posted on here in like a billion years I'm so excited to start writing, tell me what you think! This takes place after the apocalypse, and I will warn you there is violence, so if you are not into that please don't read this! I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I hope to write more in the future (other than the two really shitty stories I posted on here an eternity ago and hooo boy what a time)
> 
> I'm currently editing the first few chapters because i don't quite like how they turned out the first time, but there will be more to the story released soon!

“Angel!” Crowley said as he burst through the door of the bookstore. His voice was practically singsong, he was brimming with excitement. He held a takeout bag of Aziraphale’s favorite sushi. “You’ve got some thwarting to do, I’m afraid I might just tempt someone unless you join me for lunch!”

Aziraphale had not left his house since the return from hell. He was elated to finally have endless free time, and spent most of it reading or fixing up his old books. Now that his actual work was out of the way, he had practically retreated into his hobby. Crowley didn’t particularly mind, but it had been a week and he was tired of hanging out on his own. Besides, he had big plans for the day. 

“Angel, come out come out wherever you are!” He shouted, closing the door behind him. Then, he felt something strange in the air. The room was… holier. Not the kind of holiness he was used to, Aziraphale’s calm and loving radiance, but something red-hot, filled with zealous justice and exacting judgements, like the other angels. 

“Angel?” He cried out, a tinge of concern creeping into his voice. Something was definitely not right. He felt his stomach drop, and wasn’t quite able to breathe. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, but he couldn’t quite suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. He stalked up the stairs, silently, his legs quivering slightly. Suddenly, panic rose in his throat like bile and he couldn’t breathe. For just a moment, he thought he could see the flames licking at the bookstore walls. He could feel the memory of intense heat on his skin, and his knees began to buckle. The bag on sushi slipped from his hand and, forgotten, rolled down the stairs. He straightened himself, tried to get a handle on his breathing, and willed his shaking legs to carry him up the stairs. He noticed the moment his foot hit the final step. 

Aziraphale was a creature of habit and order, and he always kept strict rules with his workshop. It was in the room that should have been the master, Aziraphale kept a small guest room in case anyone showed up, but he didn’t particularly like sleeping. His workshop was for, in his words, the rehabilitation of precious books. He did not allow food, drink, or anyone except himself to enter. As such, the door had always remained firmly closed. Today, however, the door was wide open. Crowley could just see the top of Aziraphale’s head, his delicate curls resting in a pool of blood. 

“Aziraphale!” he cried, like some wild thing had possessed him, and he dashed into the room faster than a human being ought to be capable of moving, collapsing next to the heap of Aziraphale’s body. 

Aziraphale was curled into a fetal position. There was a short knife, an ornate one Crowley had given him on a trip to Japan long ago, sticking out of his thigh. Crowley winced at the knife, a small cry escaping from his mouth. He wished he had never given him that knife, as if that would somehow save his beloved. Aziraphale had been beaten badly, left to die, but the knife felt like a personal attack. It glinted in the sunlight, raw light slashing Crowley’s eyes, and he cringed. He had never felt so sick in his life. 

Crowley knelt by his angel’s side, burying his face in Aziraphale’s still-warm neck and sobbed. They had discorporated him. There’s no way he’d return! He was still an angel, but the odds of Gabriel letting him come back to Earth were nil. Crowley’s tears mixed with the blood on the ground, still soaking into the once angel-white carpet. “Oh Angel!” Crowley cried, his words muffled.

Aziraphale groaned, and the world stopped moving. Crowley froze, panic dripping through his veins like warm lead. He wasn’t dead, not yet. Crowley willed his shaking hands into action, and he burst into a frenzy. He conjured bandages and medical supplies, and he got to work. The damage had been extensive, broken ribs, a broken leg, broken nose, and who knows how awful the internal injuries were, but Crowley had picked up some medical training in the past 6,000 years. He had used his knowledge before the apocalypse to convince the demons that he came up with Big Pharma, although in reality the humans did that themselves. As he worked, he wished from the very bottom of his soul that he had learned to heal. Demons didn’t need to heal people, so he hadn’t bothered learning. He had never thought of himself as a person in need of healing, but seeing Aziraphale like that on the floor, so soft, so vulnerable… He chocked back a sob, silently reprimanding himself. Now was not the time.

When Crowley finished, he gently lifted the angel up and carried him to the guest bed. Aziraphale moaned in pain, his eyes shut tightly, a mewling whimper as he shifted slightly in Crowley’s arms. Crowley felt something inside him break, the pained sounds swimming in his head, drowning out all thought. 

“It’s alright, Angel. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He whispered wishing he could sound more reassuring. Wishing it could really make it okay. He placed Aziraphale on the guest bed. The sheets were blood red, and Crowley couldn’t bear to see this horrific reminder, so he quickly conjured up a nice pastel blue, something he thought Aziraphale would like in an attempt to stop the flood of images from invading his mind once more. He pulled a chair to the bed, momentarily resting his head in his shaking hands. He pulled in a deep breath, trying to hold himself together, but he felt like he was going to explode, like any second now a wave of rage and grief. He wanted to summon Heaven and Hell right here, right now, and take them all in battle. He wanted to see the looks on their faces when he made them pay.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, as if in a dream, and Crowley’s anger drained out of him as quickly as it had come.

“Can you hear me? It’s going to be okay, everything is going to be alright, okay? You just rest and heal. Please, just rest and heal.” His voice broke, and tears began to pour down his face. He buried his head in his hands, and felt depleted and alone.

“Why you?” He whispered between sobs. “Why couldn’t they have done this to me? I deserve it! You’re the good one, why did they have to come for you? Oh Angel, I never even got to tell you. Oh, I had such a night planned out, you would’ve loved it, and I was going to tell you. What have they done to you? Why?” He wished he could cry more, but the tears just wouldn’t come. Aziraphale moved a little in his sleep, pain flashing across his face. Crowley placed in hand in Aziraphale’s bloodied hair, wishing he could comfort the angel, wishing he could take his place. Aziraphale’s hair was tangled and matted with blood. Crowley gathered himself enough to miracle a warm, damp towel. He began to clean his curls as well as he could with the damp towel and shaking hands, but the blood just wouldn’t come out. Then, he noticed a slight shadow forming around Aziraphale’s eye, and his heart stopped beating. His angel, his beautiful angel, had a black eye. He was hit with the force of what had happened, and suddenly felt like he would break. He leaned down, burying his head gently in Aziraphale’s undamaged chest, and relished in the sound of heart, as faint as it may be.


	2. A Night to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tells more about his plans and is really sweet and adorable and I love my secretly soft son wow what a gay icon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys it's me, back on my bullshit! I'm in a bit of a writing frenzy so hopefully I crank out a few new chapters tonight. I literally have been dreaming about this story just you wait!

Crowley had planned the perfect day. He would surprise Aziraphale with his favorite sushi, and then they’d go on a walk that would just happen to end up in a rare book store with the Dickens first edition that Aziraphale had been trying to track down for quite some time (the book had been very difficult for Crowley to find, but he was able to use some miracles to figure it out), and then they’d see a movie. There was a particular period piece out, a remake of Jane Eyre, and Crowley happened to know that Aziraphale loved Jane Eyre. Then, a moonlit picnic at the bandstand, complete with delicious pastries and fine wine. Crowley pictured the confusion on Aziraphale’s face when they reached the bandstand. “My dear boy, why are we going to the bandstand?” He’d ask, and Crowley would say something cool like “Well, it’s such a perfect night! I’d hate to spoil it. Besides, everything needs a second chance, even bandstands.” Aziraphale would smile politely, but hesitantly, and he’d quickly forget his doubts because the night would be perfect, and everything did deserve a second chance. Crowley would serve the wine, but he would only drink enough to calm his nerves. Then, when the full moon illuminated them both, Crowley would finally, finally,tell Aziraphale the three little words that had been bouncing around his head for the past 6,000 years. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what would happen next. Perhaps Aziraphale would run off, never to be seen again, but Crowley simply couldn’t contain it any longer. He loved Aziraphale, and he had already almost lost him in the fire and he sure as hell (heaven? whatever) wouldn’t waste another moment in a world where Aziraphale didn’t know how loved he was. 

But instead, Crowley’s beautiful night was shattered into a million pieces. Instead, Aziraphale was fighting for his life, and Crowley could do so little about it. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. An eternity, maybe two, though it may have just been a matter of days. Time passed so slowly now. Aziraphale writhed in pain, occasionally whimpering and crying out. Crowley desperately wished he could do something, he hated looking at his angel, so pale and broken, and being entirely helpless. He started counting Aziraphale’s breaths, knowing that this was not actually helpful but also desperately wishing for the ability to do something, anything. Occasionally, Aziraphale would stop breathing, and Crowley’s heart would stop. He’d have to remind himself that angels don’t need to breathe, that it didn’t actually mean anything, but he always found himself holding his own breath in terror. 

One night, Aziraphale was particularly quiet and still, and Crowley began to relax. He thought that things were going to be better, he felt the tension loosen in his chest. He finally blinked, allowing himself to take his eyes off Aziraphale for the first time in what felt like decades, and he gently brushed Aziraphale’s hair with his hand. 

Aziraphale had sparked a horrible fever, and Crowley felt the same leaden panic climb up his spine and bite into his heart. His hands shaking, he began to pace, trying to decide if he ought to call an ambulance. While Aziraphale is in a human body, Crowley couldn’t be certain that his anatomy was exactly the same. What if the humans saw that something was off? What if they somehow discovered his age? No, Crowley couldn’t have that. He steadied his shaking hand on the bridge of his nose, and felt his stomach churn. He couldn’t just sit here, he had to do something, but there was nothing to do! Crowley had never felt so devastatingly small and powerless in his entire existence. So, Crowley did the only thing he could think to do. He had gotten on his knees and prayed to a God that he did not believe in. 

Days later, though perhaps it was centuries, Aziraphale’s fever broke. Crowley felt like a dam had opened inside him. He finally breathed for the first time in days, he collapsed to the ground, grasping tightly onto Aziraphale’s undamaged hand. He stayed like that for a full day, finally getting up when Aziraphale squeezed his hand, as if in assurance.

The room began to be oppressively silent. Aside from Aziraphale’s deep breaths and occasional whimpers and cries, it was as quiet as a grave. Eventually, Crowley couldn’t take it anymore. He felt as though he was trapped in a cave with only his thoughts. He could hear them bouncing around, drowning out all other sound, and they were awful thoughts. “Your fault.” They told him, beginning as a whisper but quickly spirling into a vortex of self-loathing and anxiety. “YOUR FAULT!” They demanded. He tried to reason with them, but that only caused them to scream louder. Crowley didn’t want to admit it, but he agreed with the voices. He knew rationally that this was not his fault, could not have been his fault, but he couldn’t help but wonder (especially in the quiet hours of the night, with his beautiful and broken angel sleeping fitfully nearby, especially when he was suddenly hit by a wave of love while gazing up on his gentle face) what would have happened if he had been there. If he had somehow magically known. 

That is when Crowley noticed the piles of books all over the room. They were not like the others, they were the kind of shitty books you can get at gas stations for a dollar, but they were well loved. Crowley had never seen these books before. In fact, and he could not have known this, Aziraphale was quite embarrassed of these books. They were not the high art he typically enjoyed, most of them were absolutely terrible books that no one would ever read, but he always found himself strangely drawn to them. He loved these books like he loved babies. Ridiculous and somewhat useless, but absolutely charming. He marvelled at the coarse texture of the pages, the plots that unravelled the same moment they were introduced, characters who spoke as if they had never spoken before. He loved these books most of all because they felt particularly loved. These authors were not chasing fame or trying ot make some lofty societal statement. These authors knew they were shitty, but they wrote because they absolutely loved it. These books were the product of unconditional love, and he loved them so much more because of it. 

As Crowley flipped through the pages, he was absolutely shocked to find that Aziraphale had written in the margins. Crowley had never known him to do that, but he would recognize the angel’s handwriting anywhere. Aziraphale wrote lazily, slowly. He relished each stroke of his pen, as if he were tasting each letter. Crowley traced the words with his finger, gently caressing each curve, his own mouth inadvertently moving around each letter. 

And so, Crowley began to read aloud to Aziraphale. He would read everything, even the handwritten notes. It gave Crowley some amount of peace, his whirling thoughts crowded out by bank heists and romantic soliloquies. He read about cowboys in space, elven wars, and deadly assassins. His favorite part, though, were the notes Aziraphale left. Occasionally, he would find one that just read “Crowley,” and he wasn’t sure what these meant. Perhaps they were speaking directly to him, telling him he would like this particular paragraph, or perhaps some character reminded him of Crowley. 

Crowley was wrong about both of these. In fact, Aziraphale wrote Crowley’s name absent-mindedly, like a doodle. He liked the way his pen formed the word, the round O connected to a perfect W. He liked the feeling of the loop on the L, the strange recklessness of the Y. It was a name that made him smile, and over the centuries Aziraphale found himself writing it down more and more, just to feel the word in his hand. It had become a habit, and often Aziraphale didn’t even know he was doing it. Sometimes, his fingers would trace the word gently in the air, lingering for a moment on the Y, letting it hang for a second longer, and he would smile gently, his eyes beaming with love. (He would never admit it, but he had learned the alphabet in sign language just so he could feel Crowley's name on his fingers, alighting quickly from the curled E to the out spread Y.) He wished, sometimes, that Crowley would notice. 

One day, in the middle of an absolutely terrible book, William Shatner’s Tekwar, Aziraphale began to shift. He moved his head, as if he was searching for something, though his eyes were closed. His lips parted and he said, in a voice so desperate and frightened, as if he was afraid of the answer, “Crowley?”

The word hung in the air for a moment, Crowley had forgotten how to speak. He couldn’t seem to make his mouth move, couldn’t remember how to piece words together. 

“I’m here.” He said, and his heart leapt as his angel opened his bright blue eyes and shot him a dazzling grin of relief.


	3. Our Side, For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is kinda sad. I do plan on carrying this out a lot longer and eventually having this become just a delightful domestic fanfic and also some telenovela drama because i am 100% that bitch, but this is a good chapter (if I do say so myself)
> 
> also this is a slow fucking burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited that this has already gotten a few views and some kudos! I honestly did not imagine that a single person would read this, so imagine my surprise (and excitement) when I saw that 40 people had! I really appreciate it, and I'm excited to write more! comment if there are any typos bois I am a bad speller tm

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open, and he found Crowley’s worried face staring back at him. He sighed in relief, he had just been having the most terrible dream that a gang of angels had- 

And then he realized that it was not a dream, and his breath caught in his throat. His body was full of a deep ache, he felt like he was floated gently down a river of pain. 

“Don’t move.” Crowley said, “You took quite a beating, and I don’t want to have to reset any bones.”

Had Aziraphale seen Crowley’s eyes, he would have noticed that he had been crying. He would have seen deep set circles under Crowley’s eyes, He would’ve noticed a look full of both intense pain and a great, deep love. It was the kind of look that would have withered Aziraphale. His heart would have simultaneously shattered and grown, and he would have wept. Crowley would have gathered him up in his arms, and the two would have lain there like that for hours. Their relationship would have changed from then on, both finally vulnerable enough to bear their feelings for the other with no fear, nothing to lose. Crowley, however, was wearing his usual sunglasses, so Aziraphel did not notice his exhaustion and worry.  
Aziraphale went to move his hands together, an instinctive desire to twiddle his thumbs born out of the slight discomfort caused by Crowley physical proximity. Aziraphale could feel his breath, could smell his earthy, smoky smell. He wanted to- 

His arm seized with electric pain that shot down to his fingers, and he cried out. He realized that he had never felt true pain before this moment. Sure, Aziraphale had been injured before. There was the time he slipped in King Arthur’s Court, skinning his knees and leaving his ego bruised, and a handful of other times, but for the most part he was able to magic his little injuries away. Aziraphale wished he could magic this away, wished he could dam the cascading pain, but he didn’t have the power necessary to do this. He was paralyzed with fear and frustration, and, as he gently relaxed his arm and felt the strange comfort of only a dull pain, he realized Crowley had heard him call out. Crowley’s face was drawn tight. He looked like a man on a sinking ship, recognizing the situation but understanding that there was nothing to be done. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, “I’m certain you’ve gone through a lot of-”

“Don’t.” Crowley said, softly but with force. Aziraphale closed his mouth, and the two sat in miserable silence. 

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asked, after a while.

“You know, if I sit perfectly still it isn’t that bad.” Aziraphale responded, trying to put some light and bounce in his voice. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand lightly, and the angel stiffened. Crowley quickly withdrew.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He said, but when he looked at Aziraphale’s face, he saw that the angel was blushing. He hadn’t hurt him, Aziraphale had just been surprised at the forwardness of the gesture. Crowley suddenly felt warm. Relief flooded through his system, and he realized how incredibly tense he had been. Aziraphale didn’t seem quite so fragile to him anymore, he seemed much more like the Aziraphale Crowley knew and loved. Crowley smiled a little, offering to get Aziraphale some cocoa. He nodded, and Crowley went to the kitchen to make some.

When Crowley arrived, he was excited to see Aziraphale’s face light up. He handed the warm mug to Aziraphale, who was suddenly beat red. 

“Ah, well” Aziraphale said, realizing that he could not actually lift the cup to his mouth, but feeling far too embarrassed to ask Crowley to- to what? Hold it for him? He felt his face flush even deeper as he pictured this. Crowley, however, had already miracled both a straw and a bed-table so that Aziraphale could drink it himself. He was surprised to find himself a little disappointed that Crowley hadn’t held it for him, but he shook that feeling off as soon as he felt the blush returning to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale said politely after taking a few sips of the warm cocoa. He had never had cocoa quite so good, though he couldn’t decide if its taste was enhanced because it was made by Crowley or because- 

-Because he had just been beaten within an inch of his life by a gang of angels he didn’t even know who called him horrible things and-

Because he was quite thirsty. 

“Really,” He continued, his voice betraying a slight waver, “this is rather delicious cocoa and I’m certain that the past few days have been, well, difficult. I, well, I appreciate it.”

Crowley’s mouth cocked into a half smile. 

“Don’t thank me, Angel,” he said, with just a whisper of his typical cool facade.

“Well, I will do what I like and perhaps I like to thank you.”

“Fine, thank me as much as you want.”

“Thank you.” 

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale finished his cocoa. Crowley miracled the dish away and offered more, but Aziraphale looked so tired, as if this little conversation had been so much effort for him, and Crowley felt his tension and anxiety resettle on him, his brow creasing again with concern as a small voice in him wondered if Aziraphale would wake up again once he had fallen back or asleep, or if, perhaps, this was the very last time Crowley would ever see him again. 

“Were you reading before?” Aziraphale asked and he settled down to sleep, and Crowley grunted affirmatively. “Would you mind continuing?” and Crowley acquiesced, glad to have something to busy himself with. 

The angel did not pay the story any mind, his thoughts were lost elsewhere. Now that he had closed his eyes, his mind immediately swept him away to his awful memories. He shivered slightly, and pain traced its way down his spine, through his legs. His breath caught as his aching ribs remembered countless blows, his ears ringing with the sound of angelic laughter, beautiful and terrible. They had called him a traitor, had ridiculed him for being friends with Crowley, had kicked him as he lay helpless, as he begged them for mercy. It was a sight to behold, an angel begging other angels for mercy but finding nothing but angelic hatred and a petty grudge. The worst part was that he didn’t recognize a single one. They were so young, much, much younger than him, perhaps created after the split. Heaven hadn’t even bothered to send down Gabriel or Uriel. They sent children. Or perhaps, and he shivered as he wondered this, perhaps they hadn’t even sent them at all. Perhaps these angels just hated him so deeply that they decided, entirely of their own volition, to kill him. Pain radiated through Aziraphale, but this time it was not a physical pain. It was the searing hot heat of shame, the gaping wound that screams “unlovable” to its host as it bleeds them dry. Even the angels didn’t love Aziraphale, and angels were supposed to love everyone. He held back a small whimper as tears began to spill over his cheek. Crowley, still reading, did not seem to notice, and Aziraphale wanted to weep until his eyes bled but he was too aware of Crowley’s presence to make any noise. 

Somewhere, deep down inside, Aziraphale knew that he was not an angel any longer. He wasn’t a demon either, he was something more akin to human but not entirely without supernatural status. He was one of a kind now, and loneliness bloomed in his heart like a weed, digging its root deep into his heart. He wasn’t conscious of this new awareness, this new feeling of isolation, but it would percolate up inside him, and he could feel it pulse and shift slightly, like a fetus warning its mother that someday it will overwhelm her. It was still an inkling for now, just a little nub in his heart, but already Aziraphale felt like he was miles away from the nearest creature, though he could still hear Crowley breathing by his bed. For a moment, the reminder of Crowley’s presence brought peace. A moment later, the loneliness lodged in his heart began to whisper, reminding him of all the times Crowley had left. All the times he had watched Crowley walk away, all the times he wondered if Crowley would ever return. He did not, however, remember a very important key point about Crowley, which is that he was a boomerang. No matter how far he wandered or for how long, Crowley always came back. Yes, Crowley was flighty and unpredictable. He craved innovation and was bored easily. He embraced change and never seemed to sit still for long, but he loved Aziraphale beyond all of this. Loneliness, however, is a debilitating disease. Once it has wormed its way inside, once it has begun whispering its siren song of unloveable monsters who are destined to be alone, it can be difficult to pull yourself away, to remind yourself that you are loved. It is especially difficult when you are rejected by your own kind, cast out into a world that does not believe you exist. Lost in his thoughts, pulled into the abyss of his mind and memory, Aziraphale let a single sob escape his lips, tears pouring down his face. The sound hung in the air as Crowley stopped reading. 

“What’s wrong? What hurts?” He asked, and behind his glasses his eyes were bright and filled with worry. 

“Nothing, dear boy,” Aziraphale said with a slight sniffle. “Go back to your reading. I was just getting invested in the story.”

“The William Shatner story? The one where a guy gets addicted to VR? You’re crying because of the story?” Crowley said this with the sound of a joke in his voice. Normally, Aziraphale would have clued in on this and responded by saying something like, “Ah yes, it’s truly a masterpiece,” with such reverence and seriousness that the two would’ve giggled, the tension entirely broken. The loneliness in Aziraphale’s heart would have dislodged a little, and he would have talked lightly with Crowley a little longer. Instead, Aziraphale closed his eyes again and did not respond. 

Crowley had never seen a look of such pain and isolation on Aziraphale’s face, and he couldn’t help but grab his hand and, lowering his head down to its level, kissing it slightly. Aziraphale stiffened at the touch, and the two sat in tense silence. This time, however, when Crowley loosened his grip on Aziraphale’s hand, the angel held tighter, as if he was repelling into an endless chasm, and this was his own attachment to the exterior world. He fell asleep a little while later, soothed slightly by the sound of Crowley’s reading and the small circles he traced on the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb.


End file.
